


noir heart

by Furiyan



Category: Frozen (2013), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: AU, Adult Language, Blood, Broken Jack, Crime Scenes, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Detective!Jack, Drabbles, F/M, Inspired by Luther and Alice Morgan, Mind Games, Murder, Not your usual Elsa, Past/implied Pitch/Elsa, Power Play, Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 14:11:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 9,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5542859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Furiyan/pseuds/Furiyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the weary, cynical detective Jack is drawn into a web of lies, deceit, mind games and power play; and at the centre of it all, a pair of cerulean blue eyes that herald his downfall...or his salvation. A story told in 100-500 word drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Hai!
> 
> I know Of Ghosts and Valkyries is sorely in need of an update (and it will be soon), but I realised that I haven't actually put this on here. Wanted to give you all something.
> 
> This drabble series contains adult themes such as profanity, sex, explicit language, graphic descriptions of both violence and death.
> 
> Usual disclaimer follows:  
> This is a drabble series that utilises characters from the movies "Rise of the Guardians" and "Frozen" - as such, while the plot is mine, the characters featured in this story are not. The "Rise of the Guardians" movie characters belong to Dreamworks, and the "Frozen" movie characters belong to Disney. I own nothing but the plot, a blueberry muffin, some pocket lint and a very dark imagination.
> 
> Slow start, but the story picks up when Elsa arrives in Chapter 13.

 

**noir heart: one**

_"Good morning Arendelle City! It's a cool fifty degrees Fahrenheit today, with highs of fifty five in the afternoon. The skies are overcast, but don't let that get you cold and down, 'cause it's the six a.m. wake up hour! Here's a little Bruno Mars to get you up and out of bed…"_

With his face pressed into the drool-soaked pillow, Jack snaps awake with a start at the infuriatingly enthusiastic radio host's miserably awful attempt to, like every day, channel Robin Williams in _Good Morning Vietnam_.

His eyes bleary with alcohol-induced sleep, his mouth dry with dehydration and his head pounding like a herd of elephants on speed, he blindly swings his right arm at the _Uptown Funk_ -playing radio, desperate to kill the noise and save his skull.

Instead, his hand accidentally connects with the half-empty bottle of _sleeping-medication-also-known-as-beer_ resting on his nightstand, and sends it flying a good few feet with its contents spraying even further, coating the floor and the edge of his worn bedsheet in warm alcohol.

Five minutes in the land of the living, and he's already making mistakes.

Hell of a start to the day.


	2. two

**noir heart: two**

One long, gloriously hot shower, painkillers, breakfast of pancakes and mug of industrial strength black coffee later, and he feels a little more human. Well, aside from his pounding hangover. Maybe he shouldn't have had those eight bottles of beer when he arrived home from work last night.

Still, his life is going down the drain anyway – might as well have a little fun along the way, especially when it numbs the memories…and the anger.

Stood in front of the large mirror in his bedroom, he badly adjusts the black necktie over his sky blue shirt (it was always Rapunzel that used to help him with it in the morning, but all that stopped when she divorced him eight months ago) just as the six a.m. segment takes a break for the news.

_"Arendelle City Police detectives are still no closer to finding the Ashley Madison Ripper than they were six months ago. With at least ten known male victims, there's no telling when the Ripper's bloody reign of terror over this city will end."_

Jack chuckles bitterly as he re-adjusts his necktie for the sixth time. "Ashley Madison Ripper…" he murmurs to himself.

Satisfied that his necktie looks something approaching smart, he strides over to his nightstand, slides open the drawer, retrieves his holstered Glock 9MM and APD badge and lazily knees it shut.

Clipping the holster to the belt of his black pants just at his right hip, he repeats the process with his Detective badge on his left hip and promptly leans over to his bed to pick up his cheap black suit jacket.

He casts one glance at his reflection in the mirror as he slips his arms into the sleeves, and silently remarks on how weary he looks.

"Time to go to work…" he mutters cynically, and marches off towards his apartment door.


	3. three

**noir heart: three**

Conversations instantly hush and eyes flick up from whatever they were interestedly perusing as Jack pushes open the wood-framed glass door to the open plan APD detective's office. His colleagues – once good friends, now wary acquaintances – watch him suspiciously as he walks towards his desk, far in the opposite left corner of the artificially lit, magnolia painted office. Quiet murmurs follow him like a cloud of agitated bees, deepening his self-conscious desire to isolate himself.

The chair on the other side of his desk is empty – Aster must be working on a case, talking to a witness or questioning a suspect. Not that Jack would know; he warned Aster a long time ago not to openly associate with him so Internal Affairs wouldn't have reason to put the Australian in their sights.

Therefore, while Aster gets the important cases like murders, robberies and narcotics, Jack gets the run-of-the-mill cases like fern thefts, instances of vandalism – or if the folder waiting on his messier side of the desk as he flops down in his chair is anything to go by – graffiti.

"Fucking beat cop level shit…" Jack hisses irritably as he opens the folder and skims disinterestedly through its meagre contents, and he mentally curses how thin the Arendelle P.D. is stretched nowadays. A quarter of the detective unit is on the hunt for the Ashley Madison Ripper, while the rest tackle everything else.

He used to be one of the best – observant, confident, cocky, with a knack for sussing out suspects and a propensity for bending the rules.

One choice, one fatality later and he's stuck in career limbo.

But if you ask him if he regrets that night?

He'll say _"no way in hell"._


	4. four

**noir heart: four**

Immersed in the oh-so-interesting case of someone spray painting _THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE IS NIGH_ on the side of Arendelle High's main building, he nibbles at his pecan Danish and sips at the pathetic excuse for coffee as he wonders whether or not, in the age of smartphones, selfies, mobile Facebook and the Cloud, the pictorially prophesized Zombie Apocalypse isn't already here.

"High school jock, probably drunk and on a dare." he states with boredom to no-one in particular, and contemptuously tosses the folder back onto his desk.

He loosens his necktie, closes his eyes and relaxes into the hard wooden chair and for extra emphasis of the middle finger to the establishment – _he puts his feet up on the desk._

Such a rebel.

Unfortunately, his posture of blatant revolution rivalling that of the French is disturbed by the appearance of a tall man by the side of his desk, who applies a reprimanding slap to his smartly shoed feet with a thin folder.

Jack opens his eyes with an exaggerated roll, and flicks them up to the emerald orbs of his partner-yet-not, with a head of light grey hair (like Jack, he lost his natural colour early in life), sporting a navy-blue suit with a grey shirt…currently regarding him with hard eyes and a borderline contemptuous sneer.

"Sup, Bunny?" Jack sighs.

"Nothing a bent cop like you should care about, mate."


	5. five

**noir heart: five**

Aster's voice is gruff, but there's a twinkle in his eyes that tells Jack that his outwardly abrasive manner is for the benefit of everyone else still glancing at them – some even forgoing discretion for unabashed glaring. He knows the truth. He also knows that the resident I.A. detective Hans Southernisle is keeping tabs on Jack.

"Love you too." Jack grunts as he rolls his eyes.

"Whatever. I smell the bar smoke on you from here. Surprised your liver's not packed in." Aster says with a thick edge of sarcasm.

"Aww, you _do_ care." Jack smirks, and it earns him a harder rap on his feet.

"Shut it, you. Anyway, boss lady has a job for you. She wants you to interview a witness."

Jack groans as he rolls his eyes with even greater theatricality, and slumps further into his chair. "Oh, joy. What is it now? An old lady saw a masked man steal her neighbour's prize kale? Maybe Arendelle High's football mascot uniform was found impaled to a goalpost, and the janitor saw someone do it. Oh hell; let's push the boat out – city socialite Cinderella witnessed…"

His tirade of growing sarcastic irritability is swiftly cut off by something that hasn't graced his ears for a year.

"How about the witness to a murder, mate?" Aster snaps grumpily, and his eyes drift slowly to the pathetic excuse of a case folder on Jack's desk, "or would you rather investigate bad artwork?"

Jack sighs exasperatedly, and gives him deadpan. "You're serious?"

"Dead serious, mate."

There's a palpable silence while his cobalt eyes intensely scrutinize Aster's face for any sign of a prank, or a lie, and it's the same silence that once graced the interview rooms back when he was actually a detective, not a pariah.

"This had better not be some bullshit thing Hans has cooked up." Jack growls. Aster shakes his head.

"Nope. Bona fide witness to a bona fide murder. Boss lady wants you to interview her."

Jack blinks. "Her? What's her name?"

"Elsa Black."


	6. six

**noir heart: six**

"Why me? I thought I was assigned all the crappy cases." Jack asks as they walk down the cheaply painted, black and white tiled corridor towards Interview Room A.

"She won't speak to anyone, mate. Literally every cop here has been in that room, and she's kept mum. You're pretty much the last chance we've got of getting a statement. Trust me, though, when I say that if we had any other option than putting _you_ in the room, we'd take it in a heartbeat." he says loudly as he feathers his hand on the door to the observation room, where detectives generally observe the witness or suspect…but with a sly glance over Jack's shoulder, the Australian leans down close to his ear.

"…between you and me, I reckon you could crack this case, even if the boss lady wants you to only do the interview." he murmurs. A blossom of gratitude swells within Jack's heart…which he swiftly boxes, locks and stuffs to the back of his mind for the days when everything goes to hell in a hand-basket.

There is something that bugs him, and the question escapes his lips before Aster has even pushed the door open.

"Why is getting a statement from her so important, that you all come to _me_ for help?"

Aster's resultant smirk rivals anything that he could possibly come up with.

"Because she…" he says as he pushes open the door - peering curiously around the wood frame, Jack spots through the one-way mirror a young woman sat on the other side of the cheap steel desk, with shimmering platinum blonde hair woven into a loose braid over her left shoulder, wearing an ice blue hooded sweater two sizes too big, and blankly staring off to the lower right as though catatonic or simply lost in thought.

"…is a witness to a possible Ashley Madison murder."


	7. seven

**noir heart: seven**

"You gotta be kidding me." Jack hisses in disbelief. Aster practically pushes him into the room, and mutters sarcastically as he closes the door behind them.

"Do I look like a bloody comedian? Wait, don't answer that. You'll only say _'no, a kangaroo'_."

Jack chuckles dryly as he moves to the one-way mirror, and folds his arms as he observes Elsa Black with searching eyes. "Yeah, guess I would. So what happened?"

"Well, she wasn't exactly coherent when she called nine-one-one, and made even less sense when we got there, but the preliminary report is: an unknown assailant broke into their home. During a short confrontation Mr Black was stabbed, his throat was slashed and…well…if he could sing, he'd be 'singing soprano', shall we say." Aster explains matter-of-factly, as though reading from a pamphlet.

"And the early theory is that Mrs Black's husband was another Ripper victim, right?" Jack queries over his shoulder while mentally wincing.

"Right. We don't know much beyond that, as she hasn't talked since we took her in." Aster nods his assent as he holds out the manila folder.

Turning to face it, Jack eyes it thoughtfully while his mind automatically tallies Aster's explanation with everything he's learned from sneaking looks at carelessly misplaced case files – which, admittedly, is not a lot, but it's enough to know that Elsa Black is potentially the _only_ person to have ever witnessed a Ripper murder.

But that is an interesting notion in and of itself, and so his reply is a simple…

"Huh."


	8. eight

**noir heart: eight**

He feels Aster's observant, patient gaze burning through the top of his snow-white head as he ponders his next moves. Sure, he could take on the interview and potentially provide the break that the police needs to catch the Ashley Madison Ripper (though he wouldn't get the credit, and he'd be lying if the knowledge of that fact doesn't sting what's left of his pride), and it'd make a great swansong for his career…but then again, being involved in such a high profile case would only give Hans more of an opportunity to be all over his ass like a bloodthirsty tick.

Having said that: busting the Ashley Madison case wide open would be one hell of a big _"fuck you"_ to Internal Affairs.

He thinks and thinks, tosses up the pros and cons, works out the angles and tries to predict the future…and as he slowly, warily reaches up to take the manila folder from Aster's waiting hand and eyes it with caution, he feels a rush that makes his decision for him.

So, he walks past his bewildered ex-partner, swings open the door, and leaves.

"Where the bloody hell you goin'?" the voice of his ex-partner follows him through the corridor.

"To get my Danish, and another coffee," Jack shouts over his shoulder, and as he turns his head back towards the door leading to the detective's office he mutters, "I can't interview a witness on an empty stomach."


	9. nine

**noir heart: nine**

Disaster. Robbery. Larceny of the highest order.

Grand Theft Pastry.

Some prick has stolen his half-eaten Danish.

His stare is made of pure fire as he regards the now empty disposable plate, holding only crumbs and flakes where a delicious pecan pastry used to exist. Fucking thieves – you leave your desk for a couple of minutes, and some wise guy helps himself to your breakfast.

His eyes flick up to the dozen or so detectives hard at work over their own case files, working out who the culprit could have been. There are no tell-tale crumbs on lapels, and no-one is glancing sheepishly up…or if they think he really _is_ a bent cop, arrogantly smirking at him.

He has a fair idea of who it could be, though, and in the fashion of the prankster he used to be, he loudly and theatrically voices his…pity?

"I really feel sorry for whoever ate my Danish," he drawls as he saunters over to Lucifer's coffee-machine, "I've had a bad case of oral thrush for a week…"

There's a choking sound at the other end of the office, and wearing an evil smirk Jack's head snaps over to where a blond pony-tailed man, with a thin face, flushed cheeks and a ridiculously prominent chin is coughing over his desk.

Tuffnut Thorston.

Bastard.


	10. ten

**noir heart: ten**

The picture is, without a doubt, gruesome.

Clipped to a preliminary crime scene report – written by Aster, no surprise there – the lifeless eyes of Kozmotis Black stare off into the top left of the white frame, a choker of crimson adorning his neck and a wide patch of it where his gender-specific machinery used to be, that melts into the similarly coloured pool around him. Just by looking, it's classic Ripper work.

But as Jack leans on the wall between the door frame and the one-way mirror, leafing through the case report held against a blank paper pad between in his right finger and thumb, it feels off somehow. There's a niggling in his brain, telling him that something doesn't add up. Of course, the investigation is just beginning, so he's bound to be wary.

"Time of death?" he asks.

"M.E. says no more than twelve hours ago." Aster answers a little impatiently.

Jack grunts inaudibly as he glances down at a paragraph just below the picture – _Witness described the time of Kozmotis Black's attack as around eight p.m. – further information gathering prevented by the witness becoming incoherent._

So that adds up.

"Fingerprints on the knife and hacksaw?"

"Still waiting, but we both know the Ripper leaves no evidence, so they'll come back-"

"-clean." Jack finishes for him. He sighs, still wondering if it's all worth it in the end. Getting too involved in a case cost him his marriage and his career prospects; he'll be damned if he does it again.

But as he twists to peer at the elegantly beautiful woman in the interview room, with her eyes remaining locked in the same place they were before, there's an uncontrollable urge in his heart.

So he takes a deep breath, picks up his coffee from the small shelf under the window to replace it with the folder, and then opens the door.

Her eyes immediately flick up to meet him, and for a second his breath catches.


	11. eleven

**noir heart: eleven**

Aster watches with interest as Jack does his usual thing – well, it hasn’t been usual for the past year, but he’s seen it often enough to recognise the signs – and his ex-partner predictably goes through them one by one, under the unbroken gaze of a silent Elsa Black.

First, he forgets to close the door, and mutters an awkward _“one second, sorry!”_ as he rectifies that mistake – showing humbleness.

Second, he puts a pen in his mouth as he tosses his jacket to the floor – showing humanity.

Third, he takes the empty seat and puts his feet up on the desk – showing relaxed confidence.

Three quintessential Frost tactics that Aster clearly remembers as signs that Jack is trying to put the woman at ease…

…or something doesn’t add up, and he’s trying to lull her into a false sense of security.

Unfortunately, Aster is too far down Nostalgia Boulevard to hear the sound of the door opening and closing behind him, and he practically jumps at the sound of his captain’s unimpressed, upper class English voice.

“Well, well.”


	12. twelve

"I thought Internal Affairs was clear that Detective Frost was not to be involved in any cases until its investigation was complete?"

Captain Jane 'Maleficent' Moors is imperiously frank as always. So much so, that Aster is reluctant to turn and speak to her directly, choosing instead to listen as Jack begins the interview the usual, court-friendly way. His name, date and time of the interview, brief description of the crime…that sort of thing.

Meaning: less than a minute until show time.

"Yeah, you were…" He agrees, before muttering under his breath through gritted teeth, "and it's not I.A. doing the investigation, it's that wanker Southernisle."

"Then why," she inquires condescendingly, as though lecturing a teenager, "is it that I see him interviewing one of the most important witnesses we have ever had?"

Aster chances half a smirk as he says observantly, "You've never seen him in action, have you?"

There's a brief silence in the room, and he takes pride in the knowledge that for the first time, he's got one over the authoritarian new captain. "No," she admits reluctantly, "I can't say that I have. Detective Frost was taken off his cases before I replaced Captain St. North."

"Good man, he was." Aster muses quietly, before sucking in a muted breath and adding, "Mrs Black doesn't want to talk to anyone else, so I made a judgment call – I lied to _him_ , and brought him in without telling _you_. He can do it."

He hears a dark chuckle from behind him, preceding a subtly amused observation. "You've developed quite the disregard for authority, Detective Bunnymund."

"What can I say?" he smirks to himself, and proud victory surges within him as Elsa Black _finally talks_.

"He was a bad influence on me."


	13. thirteen

**noir heart: thirteen**

 

Jack tries and fails to stifle a huge yawn – but as he does so, he watches for Elsa's reaction.

Curiously, she doesn't follow suit – and continues to silently regard him with dull, blank eyes – she _had_ been awake all night after witnessing something horrific, so no surprise there in his mind – framed by a weary, pale face that wears an expression of numb acceptance, rosy lips parted with exhaustion, and a platinum blonde braid that bears more than a few flyaway hairs.

"Sorry," he offers apologetically, "late night."

"That's perfectly fine." she answers quietly with a cracking, slightly raspy voice – and he wonders why it's taken an entire department of detectives, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree for her to finally speak. "There's no need to apologise. I understand."

Jack flashes a half-smile of pity and sympathy. "I bet. I've got to say, you seem to be coping well despite what you've seen. How are you feeling?"

She looks away, and there's a fraction of a second where it looks to Jack like she's going to break down. "I do feel tired. I suspect it hasn't sunk in yet; it's like the images I see in my mind are from someone else's memories, and I am merely a spectator." she speaks in a barely audible monotone. For some reason, Jack has to suppress the small urge to wrap her up in his arms and enable her to cry - but such a gesture isn't exactly on the _How_ _to Interview Widows_ manual.

"The shock will do that to you, unfortunately." he says sympathetically, briefly looking away to scratch behind his right ear before returning his gaze and continuing, "Look, I know things look dark and cold at the moment, and it feels like the entire world's against you...but I want you to know that we'll do everything in our power to get the person responsible."

Her smile widens, and it sings of appreciation and gratitude, but also of numbness. "Thank you. That means so much." she murmurs, nodding slowly in acceptance.

"No problem." he quirks a half-smile. "Listen, I'm sorry, but there's going to be a few hard questions I have to ask, but I need to ask them. Okay?"

She blinks slowly as she nods - and it strikes him how awfully at ease she is. Probably still shock.

"Uh…would you like a drink before we start? Our coffee isn't great, and I think Detective Bunnymund drank all the tea…" he offers, and can practically hear the _'Oi!'_ in his head.

"No, thank you. I'm fine." she murmurs, her lips curling into a weak smile.

"Sure." he says, and stretches theatrically while stifling another yawn before continuing, "So, in your own words, Mrs Black – could you describe what you witnessed last night?"

"In truth – and I am ashamed to say this – nothing." she answers softly, but with a heavy edge of sadness.

"Come again?" Jack raises his brow in dumbfounded surprise, and lifts his pen from the notepad before even the first word has been written.

Well, this is just _fantastic._


	14. fourteen

**noir heart: fourteen**

"Can you think of anyone who would have reason to kill your husband?" he asks, watching her reaction intently. She looks off to the side once more with a pained frown upon her elegant yet tired features – a clear sign that her mind is active and working – yet slowly shakes her head.

"The reason I ask is that crimes of this nature aren't random – from the facts and what you've told me, someone broke into your home with the intent to murder your husband, so I need to know if there was anyone with a grudge against him." he pushes – there's every chance that this woman, this beautiful, tired, heartbroken woman could provide the break they need to catch the Ripper.

"I'm sorry…I can't." she murmurs.

"Are you sure? Please, Mrs Black…can you think of _anyone?"_ he persists.

"Mr Frost, thinking is all I've done since I arrived here. My mind is empty. I cannot answer your question."

Her voice is pleading and apologetic, her eyes are raw yet lost, and for a moment Jack feels bad for pushing her.

And then the moment ends, when he pretends to see something on the corner of the table, and with a reflexive speed worthy of a cobra, he slams his palm down upon it. A jarring _wham_ echoes through the witness room…which does _not_ help his headache.

"Really sorry about that. I hope I didn't scare you. I just saw a fly…I don't know why, I just felt the urge to-" he blurts anxiously as he _'wipes'_ his hand on his pants.

"It's perfectly alright," she echoes her first words to him, and curls a small, sincere smile, "I completely understand. I dislike flies myself."

He nods his agreement, and makes a mental note at what he witnessed when he slammed his hand down onto the imaginary fly.

She didn't jump.


	15. fifteen

**noir heart: fifteen**

The next hour is spent asking the same damn questions but phrased differently, broken up by the odd few minutes of small talk.

And the answer is always the same – Elsa was upstairs in her husband's study, reading a book when heard sounds of a struggle coming from the living room, and as she left to investigate she heard a gurgle of pain and then the sound of spraying liquid. Frozen in fear by the sound, it wasn't until she heard the front door close that she felt safe enough to leave the safety of the upstairs hallway to investigate, and that was when she saw her husband's body.

Put simply – Elsa's usefulness as a Ripper witness approaches that of a chocolate fireguard.

"One more time, just so I can get it straight in my head." he says exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "You didn't see the murder of your husband, you only saw the aftermath."

"That's correct." she answers meekly.

"And you can't think of _anyone_ with a grudge against your husband."

"I am so sorry, Detective Frost. My husband was an imperious, domineering man, but I can't think of anyone who would wish harm upon him." she answers sadly. It still strikes him as odd that she is not in tears – losing a spouse is one thing, but losing them to a murder is another.

She's probably still in shock. Yeah, that's it.

He feigns a yawn once more – something that, again, Elsa doesn't mimic – and vigorously dry wipes his face as though to stave off lethargy.

"Sorry," he offers while exhaling loudly through his nose, "long night, rough morning."

"There's nothing to apologise for, Detective Frost." she answers – and that's when he notices it. Her voice has become smoother, silkier and altogether different from the quiet and meek tones that graced his ears up to that point.

Especially when she adds, "After all, asking the same questions over and over again must be _draining_ for you."

He looks up, and sees her watching him intently. There's a twinkle in her eyes now that's far removed from the dull shine that used to exist, and colour has taken place of the pale complexion. She's looking less and less like the catatonic, grieving Elsa Black he first laid eyes on when Aster opened the door, and more like a confident, focused, intelligent woman.

And as he holds her unbroken gaze – silent, watchful, interested – that's when it clicks.

He utters a hum as he writes three words onto the pad. "Sure you don't want a drink?" he asks, half-smiling knowingly as he underlines them, before he rises to his feet and heads to the door.

A smile curls her lips. "Coffee would be lovely, thank you."


	16. sixteen

**noir heart: sixteen**

Jack pauses just before he fully closes the door behind him, and wearing an expression of wary curiosity he flicks his eyes back and forth between Aster, who sports part-anticipation, part-anxiety on his lightly tanned features, and Captain Moors whose sharply-boned cheeks are taut with haughty irritation…yet the normally hard eyes tell a story of interest.

"You didn't know about this, did you?" Jack murmurs as he gently closes the door behind him with a click, and folds his arms defensively.

'Maleficent' slowly shakes her head, her gaze as unwavering as the victory rolls in her raven-black hair. "No, I did not."

Jack sticks a tongue into his cheek as he shoots a narrow-eyed look at his ex-partner, trying to suppress the smile that threatens to undermine his anger. "I don't know whether to punch you in the face for lying to me," he drawls lazily, "or be impressed that you actually defied the boss for once, Mr Rules and Regulations."

"Yeah well," Aster shrugs with a sigh that Jack _knows_ is born of relief, "like I said to _o-captain-my-captain_ , you're a bad influence on me. So," he pauses as his green eyes flick down to the notepad poking out of Jack's folded arms, "whatcha got?"

Jack hesitates briefly – he's still annoyed as hell that Aster probably bullshitted about needing his skills – but with a disinterested _tch_ he eventually decides to put the increasingly curious Australian out of his misery, and tosses the notepad at him with a little more force than necessary.

There's not much on the small sheets anyway, just a few questions and answers that were scribbled and summarily crossed out, a couple of doodles and a small sketch of a fairy with an arrow through its head, but the most important words are underlined at the bottom – three of them, to be exact.

_SHE DID IT_


	17. seventeen

**noir heart: seventeen**

"What do you mean by that?" Aster asks in complete incomprehension as he passes the notepad to Captain Moors' waiting hands. Jack rolls his eyes, and finds he's completely unable to bite back a sarcastic jab.

"What do I mean by that? What, you can't read English, ya freaking wombat?" he quips, gesturing lamely between his ex-partner and the pad in Captain Moors' hand.

"Of course I can read English, you bloody idiot!"

"Great! I wasn't sure 'cause, you know, you're asking me what I meant by 'she did it'". Jack continues, and there's the ghost of a smirk that lights up his face as a result of the sudden wave of nostalgia.

"Were you always so offensive, Detective Frost?" Captain Moors asks, her brow high with…is that _amusement_ in her normally intimidatingly striking visage?

"Oh, this is nothing," Aster drawls, grinning proudly, "Back in the day, Jack and I used to bicker like an old married couple all the time."

"Yeah, and you're the one who got married first, you bastard, you were supposed to propose to _me._ " Jack grunts with feigned bitterness.

"…and he's back." Aster chuckles.

"From outer space." Jack deadpans.

For a few fleeting moments, Jack almost believes him. The repartee, the snark-infested waters…it's just like old times. Trading barbs in the Impala.

But the darkness, the cold in his heart reminds him that it's all ancient history, buried under case reports of still-missing children, court hearings, divorce papers and heartache.

He knows there's almost no laughter, no joy, no _fight_ in him anymore.

Everything else is just…putting on a show.


	18. eighteen

**noir heart: eighteen**

"Back to the witness: how'd you figure that, mate?" inquires Aster, frowning in bemusement as he passes the pad over to Captain Moors, who promptly cocks a _'this should be good'_ eyebrow of doubt.

Jack shrugs, and languidly paces a few steps before sighing. "I dunno. It's just a feeling. I've had it ever since you said she won't talk to anyone – you'd think if your husband's been murdered, you'd be chomping at the bit to tell the first detective everything you know. It's like she's…waiting."

"She's most likely still in shock." Captain Moors scoffs.

"Possibly. I reckon she's waiting for us to catch up, to come to the same conclusion she's already come to." Jack shrugs, and chances a glimpse of the witness-slash-suspect – and frowns in curiosity as he watches her pull off the sweater to reveal a stunning, black Bardot dress. His ex-partner just noticed it too, judging by the quiet wolf-whistle that graces his ears.

_Well, that's new._

"Which is?" Aster inquires, his eyes lingering on Elsa.

Jack quirks his lips to the right, and gestures towards the window. "Well, firstly, who wears an evening dress to read? Don't get me wrong, she looks stunning…but I wonder if that's the point. It's like she's saying _"look at me"._ I mean, what do women think when they see an evening dress? _'That is so beautiful'_. Men, it's _'she looks hot in that'…_ and that's what she wants. _"_

He thoughtfully scratches his jaw with his left finger as he continues, "Second, it's too convenient. Mr Black is brutally murdered and she doesn't see a thing – and so far, a complete lack of evidence other than what points us to the Ripper…and even _that's_ all wrong. The Ripper is about control, domination, superiority. They wouldn't risk being seen by a potential witness, they wouldn't be drawn into a fight, wouldn't stab the victim and sure as hell wouldn't use a hacksaw. "

"Maybe the Ripper has changed their M.O. to screw with us." Aster muses openly.

Jack quirks his mouth to the left as he wipes across it with his palm, his eyes solely fixed upon his witness-slash-suspect as he sways back and forth on his heels. "Maybe," he exhales, "but I'm not sure. I think she did it, and she _knows_ that's what I think. That's why her whole demeanour changed. She knows there's nothing we can pin on her, and everything we can pin on the Ripper. She's in complete control and is putting on a show. This is her affirmation, her grand performance, her design. This is her victory. She's waiting for us to conclude that she committed the perfect murder."


	19. nineteen

**noir heart: nineteen**

There's a long beat of silence where his words are assimilated, meditated on and – in Captain Moors' case – discarded with a subtly derisive huff.

"Fascinating hypothesis, Detective Frost," she drawls with a tone of icy doubt, "but it's less what you think and more what you can _prove."_

"No shit, right?" Jack snaps sarcastically, "I know the score. We can't arrest her 'cause the evidence is non-existent, even if we _did_ then her lawyer would have a field day with us, and if by some miracle it went to trial, there's more _'reasonable doubt'_ " he pauses to air-quote, "than if you told me Justin Bieber was talented."

He thinks on it for a second as he gazes upon the forgotten case report under the window – with no evidence to speak of that ties her to the crime, nothing except his suspicions, gut feelings and the almost  _playful_ twinkle in her eyes, the only way he'd be able to prove it is if she 'accidentally' confessed – and he has the distinct idea that she is _far_ too good for that.

However, there's strange feeling of curiosity, of  _intrigue._ Why him? Why was it that, of all the detectives in the unit, she only responded to and – in her own way – revealed herself to him?

He checks his watch and, noting that there's half an hour before they have to let her go, he turns on a dime and strides toward the door.

"Where are you goin' _now_ , mate?" Aster groans behind him. With his left hand resting on the handle, Jack turns and answers curtly, "The witness requested a coffee, didn't she?" before opening the door and sweeping out, deeply conscious of the remaining time.

Time he'd like to spend drinking coffee, talking, and _hopefully_ getting to know the _real_ Elsa Black.


	20. twenty

**noir heart: twenty**

Her entire posture has changed since he left – where once her hands were hidden under the table, now they're palms-down on the surface. Her back is straight; she looks elegant, poised, self-aware, open…and _beautiful._

She greets him with a polite and silky "Welcome back, Detective Frost."

He returns her warm smile with one of his own that screams of knowing, and once his posterior meets the seat of his chair he places a coffee in front of her with his left hand. "Thanks." he says in an effort to appear non-committal, "The old trope that detectives only drink black coffee is alive and well, I'm afraid, so there wasn't any sugar."

Her eyes remain upon him with that same twinkle as when he left, even as she lifts the cup to her lips and languidly sips. "That's perfectly fine. After all, we can't have everything we want, can we?"

"No," he sighs, and there's the ghost of a smirk that dances upon his features, "we can't. I meant to ask earlier, is the temperature okay? Not too chilly?"

"I find the cold to be quite agreeable, actually." she answers as she places her cup back on the table, and strokes it with a finger.

"Great. Thought I'd ask – it helps keep people alert, so we usually keep it on the low side when interviewing witnesses." he explains, and can't help but enunciate the last word. Her eyes crinkle with another thin smile – but it's different now. There's an amused edge to it.

"Witnesses?" she repeats, and then cocks her head slightly, "or suspects?"

He utters single grunt. "Depends on what side of the table you're on, I guess." he muses.

"Indeed it does." she says in that soft, silky tone of hers sounds almost… _luring._ Sipping from her coffee once more, she places it back before continuing, "I know that it's not common police procedure for the witness to ask questions, but I can't resist – precisely what is it that makes you think I am a suspect?"

"I was hoping you'd ask that."


	21. twenty-one

**noir heart: twenty-one**

"All things being equal," Jack sighs, reciting a common phrase, "the simplest solution is the best solution."

Her lips quirk into half a smile. "Ockham's Razor."

"Bingo." he says, gesturing towards her with his coffee cup, which he places upon the table before rising to his feet, moving to the lean against the wall behind her, and folding his arms as he burns his eyes into the back of her head. "You see, I could go round and round in my head, figuring out different ways this could have gone down. It could be the Ripper. It could be a Ripper  _copycat_ …"

"But you don't subscribe to that hypothesis, do you?" she prompts him softly.

"No, 'cause here's the thing." He says, and there's a strange flicker of invigoration within him as he continues, "we know there's no sign of forced entry, no defensive wounds on the deceased, the murder weapon is _there_ but there's no prints, and we also _know_ the only other person in the house," he pauses, taking the time to re-seat himself across her and regard her interestedly, "was you, so the _'simplest solution'_ to this little puzzle, is that you killed your husband."

"Fascinating theory, Jack. How did you arrive at such a conclusion?" she asks as she laces her fingers around her cup, frowning curiously in a way that Jack has a feeling is feigned.

"Other than the rather convenient presence of the Ashley Madison Ripper's methods – there's no evidence of an intruder."

"Ah, but the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, is it?" she points out, and Jack has the sneaking suspicion that she _knows_ she has checkmated him there.


	22. twenty-two

**noir heart: twenty-two**

"You're right, it's not." He reluctantly concedes the point.

"So…" she begins, and briefly turns her head toward the table before flicking her eyes back up to him, "have we reached the stage of the interview where there is a question as to whether I hated my late husband?"

"If you want." he grunts noncommittally.

There's a dark expression that flashes across her face before she opens her mouth, yet her words are every bit as calm and emotion-free as before. "My husband was a dictatorial man; he liked to engender a sense of fear within anyone in his circle of influence, including me, and he had numerous methods of eliciting that fear. So, did I hate him? Absolutely. Did I kill him?" she pauses, only to offer the ghost of a smile as she slowly shakes her head, "absolutely not."

"Think you can prove that?" he asks, cocking a suspicious eyebrow.

"No. As the creator of the theory, the burden of proof entirely upon you – I cannot prove my innocence just like you cannot prove my supposed culpability." Elsa says smoothly.

"What makes you say that?" Jack asks, and he realises that it's not a conversation any more…it's a _game._

"If the police truly believed I am who you think I am, and you had evidence to support that belief, surely I would be in…" she pauses, only to rather pointedly glance down to roughly where his crotch is hidden under the table and back up to his eyes with a racy expression, "handcuffs?"


	23. twenty-three

**noir heart: twenty-three**

Jack exhales deeply through his nose, venting out resignation at the fact that, essentially, he has lost the game before it even started. Relaxing into his chair, he laces his fingers behind his head as he regards Elsa with studious eyes. "I probably won't be able to prove you did it, will I?"

"I imagine you'll try." she murmurs, and just as she raises her cup to her lips there's a glint in his eyes that's almost as though she's _daring_ him.

"But I'll fail. See, you were there during the crime, and yet not – and all I have to go on is a screwed-up imitation of one of the most meticulous, careful serial killers I've ever seen. It's quite brilliant, actually."

"Is that a compliment?" she half-smiles with slightly narrowed eyes, cocking her head just an inch.

"To whom, Elsa; you, or the Ripper?"

"To whomever you wish, Jack."

"To you, then." he answers, but a menacing darkness crosses his eyes as, with his fingers still entwined together, he rests his arms on the table and leans closer toward her. Intimidating the indomitable. "Here's the thing – brilliance is just like a candle: it fades over time. Sooner or later, people slip up. They make mistakes, and then…" He clicks his fingers. "Boom."

Elsa, however, is evidently unmoved by his warning. The smile she wears upon her porcelain features still remains – and has quite possibly widened. "If I am who you believe me to be, emphasis on 'if'…what makes you think I won't resist the, ah, temptation?"

"Well, that's the thing – I don't think you _can_ resist. I think you're a malignant narcissist sociopath." he states bluntly, watching for her reaction.

It's not what he expects, to say the least.

Leaning forward enough to put her face within a foot of his, she laces her fingers together and smirks playfully, just before a small bulge appears in her cheek for a moment. "Oh my, Jack. That's quite a mouthful."

The heat that subsequently ignites his cheeks can fuck right off.


	24. twenty-four

**noir heart: twenty-four**

He's had enough of her games.

Offering her nothing more than rolled eyes and a curt grunt, he brusquely rises from his chair and exits the room to be met with Captain Moor's cocked eyebrow of _not-impressed,_ and Aster's amused and slightly cocky smirk – and decides it's not worth inquiring into their expressions.

"Tell me I'm wrong."

Aster slowly shakes his head, chuckling slyly. "Either she did it, or you just pulled one of the kookiest witnesses ever, mate."

"I must admit," Captain Moors adds, "I was under the impression she was sizing you up, too."

"S'cause she was." Jack shrugs as he scratches his temple, "she was trying to work out if I was worth her time and attention."

"Is that what malignant whatsits do?" Aster frowns, and adds "What makes you think that's what she is, anyway?"

"She's got zero empathy. She has no remorse for her husband's murder. Did you notice how she didn't yawn when I did? Yawning's infectious—see?" he gestures between them, as both Aster and Captain Moors valiantly stifle yawns of their own. "Even talking about it sets one off, but not for her. On top of that, she didn't jump when I slammed the table. Sociopaths are insanely hard to scare – pun intended."

"And you gleaned all that from one interview?" Captain Moors gives him incredulous.

"Pretty much—'cause I've seen it once before." He shrugs, and then thumbs back to the closed door. "She did it."

"Be that as it may," Captain Moors declares with an air of superiority, "there's nothing we can charge her with, so Kozmotis Black's homicide is going to be treated as a Ripper case."

"Bullshit." Aster snaps irritably.

"Prove it then. Find me a smoking gun…or knife, in this case. Put the knife in _her_ hands, or connect her inextricably to the crime. Until you can do that – let her go, and take her home." She announces tersely, before sweeping haughtily out of the room.

Jack doesn't know why it comes out so easily, but it does nevertheless – and in a strange way, there's a flicker of excitement within him.

"I'll do it."


	25. twenty-five

**noir heart: twenty-five**

"You're free to go, Mrs Black."

He watches out of the corner of his eye as she rises from the chair and laces those dainty – _murderous –_ fingers around the hooded sweater, and he notices she's not smiling any more. Perhaps the façade is back up.

At least, until she walks towards the door and stands in front of him – seven inches taller than her, he can easily look down into her eyes where that playful twinkle still holds sway.

"I enjoyed our chat." she says slyly.

"It was pretty fun, sure. Remember what I said though," He says, and leans his head closer in an attempt to appear threatening, "sooner or later, everyone makes mistakes. Every time."

She frowns—pouts and the murmuring words that escape her lips are almost pitying. "Surely that must be tedious for someone as…" she pauses, and there's an expression that leaves him convinced she is mocking him, "observant and clever as you?"

He says nothing, choosing instead to simply regard her with hard, uncompromising eyes – give someone like Elsa Black a way into your psyche, a way to manipulate and control you like a hapless marionette, and you're done for.

He's seen it before.

So, he doesn't intend to give her a single _thing._

The platinum blonde utters a _hum_ , whether it's vague or not Jack doesn't know – but there's a moment where her eyes narrow just a micron, and her lips curl just an inch at the same time as she makes the non-committal noise, and it leaves the snow-haired detective with the distinct feeling that whatever she was looking for within him?

Whether he allowed it or not, she just found it.


	26. twenty-six

**noir heart: twenty-six**

Jack cuts the Impala's engine, bringing the growling mechanical beast to a sudden halt just outside of a modest two-bedroomed house near the city limits. It's a curious place; far removed from the old-fashioned, slightly gothic exterior of Mr Black's less-than-humble (rich bastard) abode.

In fact, it's closer to a cottage or Hobbit hole than anything. For average-sized people, obviously.

"My sister's house." Elsa announces like it's nothing, jarring Jack's attention from the potted pansies by the green front door. "With my husband's house…off-limits, I have nowhere else to go. She has stated that I am welcome there at any time of distress – I think today qualifies, don't you?"

Her statement is more matter-of-fact than anything, and it drives home just how detached Elsa is from the whole thing – her husband was supposedly murdered by one of the most elusive serial killers in the country, and she's barely fazed by it.

Truth be told, Jack's mind isn't really on her nor the laughably weak case against her (in his head, technically). Thirty minutes previously, whilst fumbling for the Impala's keys in his jacket, he happened upon a circular object that set his memories ablaze of happier days, of sun-kissed golden blonde hair, green eyes and innocent wonder. He had intended to poke a little more into Elsa to try and glean something, but as soon as his fingers touched the gold wedding band all thoughts of the platinum blonde were replaced with his ex-wife.

"Jack?"

Elsa's voice jars him once more from a nostalgic reverie, and he slowly drifts his eyes from the rosebush to the left of the path to the front door, to the pair of ice-blue eyes gazing at him with an unwavering intensity.

"What?" he says blankly.

"Would you like to come in?" she asks.

He eyes her carefully, watching for any sort of reaction beyond the excellent poker face – and it reminds him precisely why he volunteered to be a glorified cab driver in the first place.

Yet, the feeling of the ring under his fingertips inexorably draws him to the past, and he decides there's one thing he needs to do first.

"Sure," he shrugs non-committally before opening his door, "I just need to make a call."


	27. twenty-seven

**noir heart: twenty-seven**

He waits until the front door closes behind her – though, he is darkly amused at her attempt to leave the door slightly ajar to eavesdrop, which was rectified by a rather pointed clearing of his throat – before he taps a certain contact on his smartphone.

One he hasn't called in _months_ , so to say he waits with a deep sense of trepidation isn't too far from the truth. As the dial tone graces his ears like an acoustic gatekeeper – it will either connect, or it won't, he has no control of it either way – he leans his posterior against the Impala's hood while glancing up at the window overlooking the front yard, where Elsa Black efficiently moves back and forth, engaged in a task he can't quite see.

Probably disposing of a body, he notes morbidly.

He starts when the call finally connects with an emotionally deafening click, and there's a moment when his heart shoots to his throat, his lungs still and a thin layer of moisture takes pride of place in his palms.

And his fingers reach into his suit jacket pocket and fondle the wedding ring.

_"Hello, Jack! It's been a while."_

Her voice is as bright as he remembered it, just like her. Full of the joys of spring, of innocence and wonder. Everything he tried to protect in his career, but slowly drained from her.

Maybe he's better now. Maybe that's why, instead of his voice belonging to the Jack whose cynicism, disillusionment and snark has helped him pull through each day, or the Jack whose cunning, observant and analytical mind allowed him to see through an act of grief and draw out the darkness within an ethereally beautiful blonde…

…his voice belongs to a little boy lost, a bright and cheery young detective before the days of kidnapped children, taunting letters and gravity – when he truly believed that love exalts, heals and strengthens all.

The last vestige of positivity in his jaded heart.

"Hey, Rapunzel."


	28. twenty-eight

**noir heart: twenty eight**

_"How…uh…how's it going?"_

Her voice attempts a breezy lilt, but he can easily detect the waver in her words without needing the nervous _'uh'_.

"Good, actually. New case. In fact I'm not really on it, so…everything's pretty easy-you?" he answers, and he can't help but curl a small smile. It's been too long since he heard her voice, and it's…nice.

_"Good, good. No, that's good."_ she babbles, and the little flicker of disquiet becomes a candle. _"I'm happy…for you. I'm doing okay, actually. Really good."_

He tries to ignore the way she's almost tripping over her words, like she doesn't know what to say in his presence. Is it that bad? He doesn't feel like a pressure-sensitive bomb. Sure, he's the equivalent of a sentient vase that's trying to mend itself, and the progress is so slow that it looks to the untrained eye that nothing has changed, but…

"Oh great. I'm glad to hear it…"

There's a pause on the line, a pregnant pause where he doesn't know what to say – or rather, he _does_ and he's trying to bring himself to say it – and she's either waiting for something to react to or is unable to speak herself.

"Listen…I was wondering…"

_"Yes, Jack?"_

"I know we…I know…I know we had the divorce and everything, and, well…" he hesitates for a moment while his free hand – trembling slightly – dives into his pocket and pulls out the wedding ring. "I was just wondering if you…if you wanted to…get a coffee sometime? I mean…"

_"Jack…"_ she tries to interrupt him, but he's on a roll. He needs this.

"I mean…I know it went bad but…I'm better now-"

_Liar,_ a jaded voice in his head tells him.

"-and I just…wanted to know if you were open to…maybe starting again? You and me?" he says awkwardly as he stares longingly at the ring, and his face manifests an expression akin to childlike hope and borderline prayer.

Then it falls.

_"I'm sorry, Jack. I can't."_

His heart stills in his chest, and the world comes to a standstill, bringing with it despondency unlike nothing he's ever felt.

_"You see…I moved away…and, well, I can't go back to how it was. That job took you apart and…I just…I can't keep trying to put you back together. I'm so sorry, Jack."_

Whatever's left in his heart that still held on to sunshine and love…breaks.


	29. twenty-nine

**noir heart: twenty-nine**

As Jack knocks on the door, he swallows down the last of his heartache and assumes his best poker face, wondering what the point is. Rapunzel made her stance immaculately clear, and if he's honest he can't fault her for it – even if it means he's now fully broken inside. All he did when he called her was to further flay his heart with truth.

_Although, your entire career revolves around truth…_ says a bitter voice in his head.

In an effort to purge his mind of his _definitely_ ex-wife and return to the here and now, he pictures the platinum blonde in his mind's eye; sat on the other side of a steel table, with eyes that both study and watch him. He has to admit, he finds her to be a little intellectually interesting, if not invigorating.

She's a puzzle with a French braid – one that opens the door wide merely a few seconds after knocking.

"Ah, Jack." She smiles, "I was beginning to wonder if you were going to simply drive off."

"What if I did?" he asks challengingly as she steps aside to let him in.

"I'd be disappointed," she sighs and lightly pouts with ever-so-slightly hooded eyes as he passes her, "possibly inconsolable."

Their eyes lock as he stands a little too close for his liking, his cobalt blues radiating suspicion while hers convey honesty…

…but he can't tell if she's joking or not.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Eternité](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10828332) by [DramaQueen14](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DramaQueen14/pseuds/DramaQueen14)




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